Fate
by Magnificent Callicles
Summary: My first story. It's a crossover, and although the first chapter doesn't actually mention any of the original cast I *assure* you they feature plenty from there on out. Please R/R, I can take criticism. Clearly I don't own any of the characters.
1. Chapter 1

Fate

Fate

Is it not a comforting thought, that our destiny is ours to forge? There are, indeed, those who rail against God and king and all the world - blaming some great conspiracy against them, and perhaps misfortune, for their circumstance – and they might seem to be taking comfort in the idea that there were things beyond their control which made inevitable their failure. But do not those very same people say to themselves "But tomorrow you shall see me for what I'm worth, tomorrow I shall make my way in spite of you."? And is not the man who resigns himself before fate, like Job repenting meekly before the whirlwind, the most wretched of them all? Yes, for sure it is a comforting thought – but it is a lie none the less. For what will be true tomorrow is true now just as surely as what was true yesterday remains so today; how could this be any other way? Fate is born of necessity and what is necessary is unavoidable. The truly glorious individual, however, - the one who I shall call a hero, the one who I shall revere as divine (you are welcome to disagree) - is the one who does not tell this comforting lie to himself, but who rages against fate anyway. This is the story of a man who was destined to die. (As are all stories, with perhaps one exception)

* * *

Let us say it began the very moment the spear tore through the Trojan infantryman's torso: His armour afforded him no protection against such a blow and his lifeblood came pouring from him. He and his patrol had been ambushed not long ago and quickly overwhelmed; he had run - his last thoughts were a mixture of fear and shame – and sought refuge in what appeared to be an isolated temple dedicated to the archer God. Apollo had not protected on him – such was his fate. Patroklos walked slowly forward to recover his spear and, taking pity on the man lying prostate before him, drowning slowly in his own blood, ended the unfortunate soldier's life with a blow to the head. Achilleus was not far behind and called out

"How goes it Patroklos, is the foe dispatched?"

"Do you doubt me, friend? Patroklos replied with mock anger in his voice

"Of course not: I do not doubt you but your spear. After all those times you have assured me that it was thrown straight and true and yet somehow it flew far from the enemy, I am starting to think that some God bears a grudge against it."

They both laughed and Patroklos drew himself up as if to wrestle, but a noise from the alter silenced them both. The dead man's blood had flown to its base and now there were terrible sounds – like the groaning of some great wounded beast – coming from its direction. Neither man was scared, for any who had contended with the mighty Hektor in battle and lived to tell the tale, as both had, knew that there was nothing left to fear – but both readied their weapons as a precaution.

"We should leave" Patroklos said "For I saw the images as I came in, and this is a temple of the great Lord Apollo: I fear by that man's death we have angered him."

Achilleus snorted "Such is the response of a coward, and in any case, if Apollo is displeased with us then there is nowhere under the sun we could hide. Keep your spear high and stay behind me, I shall investigate this."

They advanced, Achilleus taking the lead with sword drawn, and Patroklos covering his back with spear raised above his head, ready to cast at anything which should appear. The moaning and wailing coming from the alter was only getting louder as they approached it, yet there didn't seem to be any obvious source of the dreadful sounds. Achilleus gripped his sword tightly as he reached the alter, expecting there to be something hidden behind it. Actually, it was behind him.

The beasts manifestation was sudden and caught Patroklos by surprise, he barely had time to shout warning to Achilleus before the beast struck – fortunately Achilleus' reactions were far too swift for it and his quick dive over the alter saved him. However, he struck his head against the wall on the other side and the last Patroklos saw of him the black night of unconsciousness seemed to have passed over him. Caught off balance the beast stumbled forward, and Patroklos had a chance to examine this monstrosity now before him while it recovered itself. It was large, about 7 feet tall, and seemed to be made entirely of gold. It appeared to have the body shape of a well-toned man, and carried in each hand an axe, which looked as though they were made of the same golden metal its body was constructed from. Its visage was something like that of the Lord Apollo, but this was no God – for nothing divine would wear the evil sneer Patroklos saw as it turned to face him. He cast his spear with all his heroic might into the belly of the beast but was dismayed as it simply bounced off, barely breaking its stride. Drawing his sword he readied himself for the encounter as the beast advanced purposefully towards him.

Achilleus, however, had recovered and saw to it that no such encounter was needed. Lifting the alter high above his head, for – let alone the additional strength found in swift footed God-born Achilleus - all the men those days had the strength of 10 men of now, he brought it down with all his might upon the head of the golden beast, crushing it completely. In triumph Achilleus roared, so loud that far across the plains Trojan guards cowered, fearing some sudden attack had come upon them, and Greek archers readied their bows fearing that mighty Hektor had come to burn their ships while Achilleus was away. If he or Patroklos had used that time to ensure the actual demise of the beast then perhaps this tale should never have been told – but such was not their fate.

For with the last of its strength and malignity the beast was uttering some horrid incantation – it did not have the power left in it to cast a killing spell, but it could do the next best thing, it could ensure the death of one of its assailants by other means. As he uttered the last ghastly syllable he let out his last breath, but it was enough – a pale light began to gather around Patroklos, who gasped and had time only to say

"Achilleus, I "

Before vanishing completely.

* * *

Achilleus wept bitter tears and struck his breast many times. He had searched all around, and it was clear that Patroklos had been taken far beyond his reach by some divine means – for only the Gods had power such as that. But what deity would do that to his beloved? What deity would be so cruel? Achilleus' sadness was already turning to anger, and it was in this frame of mind that he prayed

"Mother, you who bore me to short life upon this world, do you now seek to rob me of my beloved? Why do the divinities hide themselves now when I demand answer from them? Surely honour should have been granted me such that I could at least avenge his passing, but the mighty God who did this is surely beyond my reach." Achilleus wiped some of the tears from his eyes and continued, "Was it Olympian Zeus the high thunderer? For even if it was he, king of all Gods, I tell you now that I will contend with him in Patroklos' name, and even he shall know fear before I am through."

At that he fell to his knees and began to pound the earth in frustration – but his honoured mother, Thetis of the shining seas, heard his cries and came to him. She took his head gently in his lap and asked him

"What is it my child, why do you cry so? Tell me that we may both know."

With a heavy sigh swift-footed Achilleus said to her "Do not patronise me woman, for you know. You always know. Some God has taken Patroklos from me and I fear I shall never see him again. In your name I swear that I shall not rest until either my last breath is spent and the black earth swallows me up, or I find Patroklos and return him to my side. You must help me in this mother, for only with the aid of a God such as you do I have hope, with your power you must protect your own son."

Now with tears of her own falling gentle Thetis replied "Oh my son, my son whom I love so much, you ask too much of a mother – for where Patroklos is there I cannot go, it is beyond the power of I or any of the Gods you know. I have seen before the strands of his fate and they are weaved into the pattern of a strange land and a strange time, where none of my kind remain. For even the Gods too must obey fate, and ours is to be vanquished by the Carpenter long before the time Patroklos has been sent to. This is our fate and we cannot escape it just as you cannot escape yours, nor Patroklos his. Yes I can send you there to be with him, but you must know that then we shall never again be together, never again share the soft words of compassion a mother loves to share with her son."

She waited for the reply she knew wasn't coming.

"Your mind is made up and I shall aid you" she continued, resignation clear in her voice "wait here only for me to make appeal to thin-lipped Hephaestus: that he may forge for you an armour to withstand the battles you are to face."

* * *

When she returned neither Achilleus nor Thetis said anything to each other – for what words could be said that could possibly capture the feelings of a mother never to see her son again? And although looks were exchanged, I shall not presume to describe them, for how could I possibly hope to capture in words such moments of exquisite anguish? I ask the audience not to try and imagine such a scene either, for surely any attempts will only do the moment disrespect. Suffice it only to say that throughout the whole exchange silent tears were shed.

First Thetis gave Achilleus the new breastplate, shining gold and seemingly light, yet forged within the furnaces of the Gods, and so affording him protection far greater than any earthly steel. After he had put that on she gave him the greaves and vambraces, themselves a dull black which contrasted with the splendour of his breastplate; he slipped those on quickly. Next came the helmet, carved on to it the visage of a raging God and with a plume of the finest and most wonderful material known – of a sort only the Gods have access to. It was silver, with the represented facial features in that wondrous gold – designed in such a way that when the sun shone on the eyes they seemed to burn in anger at whoever was before them. Weapons were next, with a spear of such great size and power that only Achilleus of all the men on earth would be able to lift it, and a sword of such supple craftsmanship that Hephaestus had wept to give it up.

Finally came the shield, black as night on its outer rim, its centre was that same divine gold which so much of the rest of his armour had been forged out of. There was an image wrought onto the centrepiece: The sun rose majestically above two great mountains; it's light glittering as it reflected off their peaks. Atop one of the mountains stood a man staring defiantly into the sun, his arms outstretched as if trying to catch it in its flight, his back covered in scars. Atop the other stood a woman, as beautiful as the dawn itself, barely old enough to go by the name of woman: she looked down in sorrow as a single tear fell from her cheek. Flying through the air between them was a spear, although one could not tell from the image in which direction it went: neither figure seemed prepared for its arrival. Between the mountains in the deep valley stood a fair city, busy with the hum of men. A funeral procession snaked its way through the main street and there was much weeping and sadness within, yet all the while the citizens elsewhere were feasting and celebrating as if their fate was not exactly like the one now mourned.

Achilleus embraced his mother one last time, and then took up the shield. His mother whispered some final words into her son's ear, who nodded sadly in acknowledgement. With that she performed the miracle, which sent her son forever beyond her reach.


	2. Chapter 2

Patroklos awoke in what appeared to be a mausoleum – albeit a large one

Patroklos awoke in what appeared to be a mausoleum – albeit a large one. Although he was dazed, and more confused than words could capture, he immediately drew his sword - his warrior instinct not being shaken in a bit despite whatever had just happened to him - and hesitantly called out.

"_Ou'lete_?"

After a moments wait it seemed he was not to get any reply and he began to move forward, when he heard a slow scraping sound coming from behind him. There appeared to be some sort of secret door leading under ground – and it was now slowly opening. Some men with strange deformities on their faces – 6 of them in total – climbed out to the surface and began to encircle Patroklos. Not only were their facial deformities odd but also they were clothed in utterly unfamiliar garments, the likes of which the Greek had never seen. The look in their eyes as they encircled him, however, he recognised perfectly: It was the same look the wolf gets into its eye as it approaches the lamb. After all that had happened to him, panic began to rise in Patroklos heart, and in desperate tones he begged

"_Lis'somai Zênos' Olumpi'ou, prosphilôs' moi e'khe!_"

to which one of their number responded in a strange and guttural tongue, completely unfamiliar to Patroklos

"What did he just say?"

"Hell if I know, but sounds like it could be the starts of a spell."

"Best to kill him now – man comes stomping round our lair with sword in hand and talking some foreign gibberish like that – I say he has it coming. Anyway, I'm hungry."

Half snarling, half laughing they began to advance on Patroklos – scared and confused as he was, he had seen enough battlefields to know aggressive intent no matter what language it was expressed in. He swung his sword to the right in a feint, causing one of the vampires (not that Patroklos knew this is what they were) to jump into his comrade in a dodge; then quickly brought the blade round in a full sweep to the neck of the man to his left. The blow connected perfectly (for these men were amateurs and, had it been any other time but immediately after his 3000 year trip through time, they should have been no match for a battle hardened hero like Patroklos) but nothing could have prepared Patroklos for what he saw next – rather than the usual gore he had grown familiar with - the man simply burst into dust, accompanied by an ungodly sound. This was the killing blow for Patroklos; everything that had happened to him, being attacked by a beast the likes of which he had never seen, finding himself here in this strange land, attacked by these mysterious men for no apparent reason – and now they too had some strange magic about them – it overtook him, and the moments hesitation as he exclaimed

"_Pros Theôn!'_"

was enough for the vampires to exploit. They leapt upon him with teeth bared, and proceeded to launch into a feeding frenzy even as he still lived. He screamed in pain. His last thoughts, before slipping into eternal oblivion, were of Achilleus. Quite out of the blue one of the vampires said

_"_Guys, I'm gonna turn him."

Why he made that decision we shall never know, for just as he did so, but before he got a chance to explain himself, there was a BOOM as the mausoleum door was thrown across the room, and a perky blond standing in its place.

"Hi guys, did I interrupt?"

* * *

Buffy had been on patrol when she heard the scream. She sighed and broke into a run, heading towards the source of the sound, thinking to herself "_Why does somebody __**always**__ have to go on a late night stroll through the cemetery?" _ while readying her weapons.

Kicking down the door it was immediately apparent to her that it was too late for the originator of the scream: From the looks of the man he had been some amateur vampire hunter that had gone in over his depth. By now Buffy had hardened her heart to such things, but it was always with a tinge of sadness that she noted just how futile must human attempts to combat the demonic world were. There could be no have-a-go heroism in Sunnydale, you were even born into a world where you could make a difference, or you were at best oblivious and at worst a victim. The initiative had learnt this the hard way, and they were victims with crack training and the best weapons money could buy. Some Lord of the Rings fanboy who was just that little bit too enthusiastic really didn't cut it.

"Slayer!" the vampire nearest to the door exclaimed "How dare you come here!?" - it was to be the last thing he said, as Mr Pointy delivered Buffy's considered response. The vampire who had been feeding on Patroklos charged headlong into Buffy, but was shocked to find that she simply braced herself enough to tackle him and throw him to the floor. His shock didn't last long, however, as Buffy was in a business like mood tonight and quickly dispatched her prostrate foe. In the mean time, however, the rest of his crew had made a break for it.

A dilemma now faced Buffy, for as she had run in it had seemed like the victim was being turned – but she had not seen enough to be sure. Should she now behead the corpse before her and prevent it ever rising? Or should she honour the solemnity of death and come back to check tomorrow, after all it was well within her power to slay the demon then. She had a decision to make, a commitment was needed on her part: And fate turns on the commitment of individuals. Her problem was not that that the unethical option seemed the more practical, as so often those defenders of every injustice and travesty will tell you it is, but rather that both options seemed to be ethical and neither seemed practical. That choices must be made is something she above all people knew, for very often the fate of the world hung upon her choices, but all too often the enormity of those very decisions seemed to crowd out the far greater magnitude of choices such as this. It these upon these choices which the fate of her soul hung. She chose compassion, she chose to honour those fallen, and in doing so she took responsibility for all the deaths that are to follow. How could it be any other way?

* * *

She had not told the scoobies of the incident over the course of the next day, and as she walked back to the mausoleum shortly before sunset she thought about why that was. Was she ashamed? Buffy didn't think so. Was it, and this would be worse, such that in the course of her life such things simply weren't unusual enough to warrant mention? Buffy hoped not. Then why hadn't she? She resolved to tell the others, or perhaps just Willow, about the poor amateur vampire hunter whose corpse she had opted not to behead tomorrow – even as she said this to herself she wished twice as much that her reasons for not telling the others hadn't been the sheer normality of such a thing. In any case she had reached the mausoleum now, and looking inside there the body was sprawled on the floor, just as she left it. If it was to rise it would do so fairly soon, all she had to do was wait – judging from the idea of the man she thought he had been before being turned (if indeed he had been) Buffy didn't think there'd be too much of a fight. If she had have thought so, she may perhaps have taken the precaution of removing his sword and armour, which still lay with him.

The demon which inhabited what was once Patroklos awoke. It flexed its muscles: Such power was in these muscles! It opened its eyes: How sharp was such vision! It felt the pangs of blood lust for the first time: How great was the hunger! A noise from behind, what could it be!? A girl was here in its birth chamber: Such fortune! Yes, indeed, she would a good first meal. But what was this? She was drawing a sword from the bag she carried with her – very well, a challenge. The demon snarled and took up the sword and shield from beside it, drawing upon the knowledge of its host it knew that only two men on earth were to be feared: Glorious Hektor of the shining helm and Godlike swift footed Achilleus, against whose invincible hands none could contend. This would be quick.

Buffy shook her head sadly as the "corpse" began to arise. Why is it in Sunnydale the worst-case scenario was always the one which came through? She thought that they may as well just label it "The scenario" – it's not as if there were any others to choose from. She reached into her tool kit bag and withdrew her short sword, a quick chop to the head was the order of the day she thought to herself. It was when the demon stood up clutching the sword and shield that she noticed that this was a rather large, well toned Lord of the Rings fanboy. With what appeared to be battle scars on its muscled arms. Holding its sword and shield in a highly professional manner. Of course, Buffy inwardly exclaimed, the scenario is played out. This was going to take longer than first thought.

* * *

_**Crack!**_

Buffy's arm almost shattered as she was thrown into the wall by the force of the vampire's blow. She quickly ducked to avoid the killing blow heading her way and at the same time swung her fist into the armoured midriff of he vampire – she was greeted with a metallic clang and sharp pain in her hand, but it at least made the vampire stumble. Man this guy was tough! They had been fighting for a good twenty minutes, neither being able to get a decisive advantage on the other. Now, however, the vampire was stumbling and Buffy wasted no time in exploiting this – she leapt into the air so as of to connect her foot with what had been Patroklos' jaw. A sickening crunch was heard as the blow connected, and it was clear she had really caught it this time. That blow must surely be the end of the matter, Buffy thought.

This girl could fight! Spitting out some teeth, the vampire was bewildered. This girl who had looked so fragile must surely be some Amazonian princess, it reasoned to itself, for there is no other woman who could have stood before him so long and yet still have life within her. The taste of her blood would be all the sweeter.

"Oh hell no, no way!"

Buffy actually let out a short cry before exclaiming those words in shock – it just spat the teeth out! Was that it? She was pretty sure that was as hard as she could hit something, and now she was getting tired – a problem she knew the vampire wouldn't have. Still, there was fight left in her yet, and she had fought stronger foes (although at that very moment she couldn't think of any specific examples) and come out victorious before. Steeling herself, Buffy bounded towards the vampire, making a sweeping thrust of her sword across the vampire's left side. It rose its shield to deflect that blow while at the same time jabbing for Buffy's midriff – she was too quick to be caught by this movement and spun rightwards, landing a swift kick to the vampire's knee as she did so. It let out a guttural cry and swung its shield into Buffy's path, knocking the wind out of her as collided with the heavy armour piece. The vampire tried to press the advantage by thrusting his sword into her neck as she did so, but despite her breathlessness Buffy was able to raise her own sword to deflect this move and push the vampire away.

"This ends now!"

With those words Buffy drew upon all her strength, all the years of experience which lay not just in her but also within every slayer throughout the ages, and threw her sword at the vampire's head. The hilt connected with a dull thud, and the vampire was knocked to the floor, utterly dazed. She jumped onto the chest of the downed vampire – since she was in the heat of battle she did not notice the strange sound and gust of wind behind her which was at this point created – and withdrew her stake from an inner pocket. It took the last of her strength to force the stake through the armour-plated chest of the vampire, who disappeared in their customary manner.

* * *

Achilleus had been too dazed to act on time, but already he hated himself for it. No sooner had he got here than had some girl jumped upon Patroklos' prostrate body and murdered his beloved by some terrible magic. There would be vengeance.


End file.
